Star Trekking
by PickleBrandenboughj
Summary: An old television set and box set of Star Trek DVD's are discovered. What happens when the episodes are taken a little too seriously?


**A/N: I own nothing. No rights to the show. No rights to civil liberties. No rights to lefts. Welcome to the future.**

Datak had originally bought the TV to spite Rafe McCawley. The day had been the sweltering centre of summer, and the former Mayor Nikki had left Amanda Rosewater in charge of a festival of "good, old fashioned garage sales." A stupid name. The booths were out in the open, not a single garage had been involved. But, that was to be expected of humans. Every nonsensical fact and conclusion was a testament to the insider – and that the outsider was not welcome.

He had swaggered along, and, out of the corner of his lilac eyes, spotted Alak. A Casti woman bowed as he passed, so he and Raiga bought some badges that she had found under the floorboards of her dwelling. She gave him a dark pair of circular glasses for free; so dark. Too dark for a respectable Casti. Perhaps it'd been why his eye had been drawn to them. Perhaps that's why she'd given them to him so freely. He put them on. They fit. With a renewed vigour, he strode through the throngs of chittering people and toward Alak, who stood in front of a powdery beige mat, covered in old furniture and dust. Rafe McCawley hung about there, hair pulled back from his wooden face, throatily chuckling as he, and another human, clucked and fussed over a purple book collection. In an instant, it was clear that his fat, pink digits were affectionately tracing that box-on-legs.

And, so, for no reason other than spite, Datak bought both items, sending Rafe away with a scowl. It felt good. Regrettably, Datak had no idea how to use a 'television.' Nor was the purple rectangle, indeed, a book collection. It was a shelf of thin plastic covers with the pink faces of humans gazing into the distance. The contraption – the box – was defunct. People didn't make the content anymore, Alak told him. It was all radio now.

The junk was moved to Wogazu's place, and from Wogazu's to Yengiyen's to Fanak's, and it was not until months later, in the Need/Want, that the items revealed their true usefulness.

Alak had been screwing around with the box and purple shelf, and Clancy had busted him and his friends for underage purchase of a brothel room, into which they'd moved instruments and some old equipment that the men in Datak's gang were willing to let them play with. Clancy had come to Datak first – as he knew to do – and they quickly began smoothing everything over. In a matter of minutes, the issue had been sorted. Alak and his friends scattered from the room, and all that was left was the smoke, the bed, and the purposeless black mirrored box. The 'television.' Datak had only just left the room when he heard – what was that? Music? Datak, mid-step, turned his head. His eyes narrowed. His eyes darted up and down the corridor: he was not fond of being interrupted.

The mirror-faced box began to emit light – in little flecks at first. Datak pushed the door closed softly, the lock faintly clicking behind him. The music became louder, and something zipped across the television's front, something grey. A ship? It crawled across the screen, over a red planet. Datak lowered the round, black glasses he was wearing, and crouched in front of the television, one knee down. He put a white hand to the screen, just as yellow text boomed onto the screen:

STAR TREK  
CREATED BY GENE RODDENBERRY

It was a screen, much like a starship console. Three men appeared on the surface of a red planet (Mars?) in a burst of shimmering light. Datak retracted his hand, and almost unconsciously shifted backwards, leaning his back against the bed, his wrists lazily positioned on his bent knees. One was called Doctor Bones, the yellow one was called Kirk, and the other didn't matter so much. It was unlike anything else he'd seen. Not a report, not a video – of which the E-Rep championed, but he had seen none – more like a performance. But nothing like the Castithan poetry he'd ever heard. This was as though they had no idea they were being watched. It was an intoxicating experience for someone such as he, who'd never sat to watch what the E-Reps pumped out, and never been exposed to anything but the rough maw of Casti culture. It was a drama, a story: a trek.

This Kirk fellow was fascinating. And Spock...? Yes, he reminded Datak of Raiga, for some reason.

He rose, groaning as his bones creaked. That was, he concluded, a rare treasure indeed. Rafe had good taste. Datak had better stuff. Boldly go and suck on his jondura, Rafe.

Datak twisted his pale mouth, and on his way out, rented the room from Kenya. He would be back.


End file.
